Recalled some feeling, to set free The Effigies* of a valiant Wight Employed in setting his sword free stern sentinel Intent to guard St. Robert's cell; The Monks of Fountain's thronged to force From its dear home the Hermit's corse, That in their keeping it might lie, * On the banks of the river Nid, near Knaresborough. Which lingering NID is proud to show Thus, like the men of earliest days, To seize whate'er, through misty air, And give the phantom an array That less should scorn the abandoned clay; Then let him hew with patient stroke An Ossian out of mural rock, And leave the figurative Man Upon thy margin, roaring Bran! - More precious than a hermit's dust; And virtues through the mass infused, What though the Granite would deny All fervor to the sightless eye; And touch from rising suns in vain Solicit a Memnonian strain; Yet, in some fit of anger sharp, The wind might force the deep-grooved harp To utter melancholy moans, Not unconnected with the tones Of soul-sick flesh and weary bones; While grove and river notes would lend, Vain pleasures of luxurious life, And all the perishable gauds That heaven-deserted man applauds ; to discern The freshness, the everlasting youth, That seeks its wisdom through the heart? Thus (where the intrusive Pile, ill-graced O'erlooks the torrent breathing showers In stiff confusion set or sown, AND is this IV. YARROW VISITED. SEPTEMBER, 1814. (See page 29.) Yarrow?-This the Stream Of which my fancy cherished, So faithfully, a waking dream? An image that hath perished! O that some Minstrel's harp were near, And chase this silence from the air, That fills my heart with sadness! Yet why? a silvery current flows With uncontrolled meanderings; Nor have these eyes by greener hills Been soothed, in all my wanderings. And, through her depths, Saint Mary's Lake Is visibly delighted; For not a feature of those hills Is in the mirror slighted. A blue sky bends o'er Yarrow vale, Mild dawn of promise! that excludes All profitless dejection; Though not unwilling here to admit A pensive recollection. Where was it that the famous Flower Of Yarrow Vale lay bleeding? His bed perchance was yon smooth mound Delicious is the Lay that sings The path that leads them to the grove, And Pity sanctifies the Verse That paints, by strength of sorrow, But thou, that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation : Meek loveliness is round thee spread, A softness still and holy; The grace of forest charms decayed, |